


waste my time

by tommyiisiit



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Office, Angst and Romance, Don't Like Don't Read, Family Dynamics, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Light Angst, M/M, Minecraft, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:34:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28191753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tommyiisiit/pseuds/tommyiisiit
Summary: a younger version of himself, younger than he ever remember's himself. helpless, alone and—and schlatt panics because now he's gone and gotten himself attached to some kid he can't possibly fucking raise.but he can't not raise the kid, either. it's like when an unmoveable force meets an unstoppable train or some shit—and schlatt's inbetween, about to be fucking crushed and he can't move.
Relationships: Alexis | Quackity/Jschlatt
Comments: 145
Kudos: 470





	1. bees & life as we know it.

**Author's Note:**

> hi! so i know this is probably considered a more problematic ship, but i've got a sweet spot for it—so well schlatt will have asshole moments in this fic, it will NOT be abusive in any shape or form. anyways, i"m experiencing dad schlatt brain rot so brrr multi chapter fic? i think so.

* * *

he didn't find him abandoned in some shoe box. 

didn't find him in the middle of no where, in a stank garbage dump or hidden inbetween bushes—it wasn't that perfect, wasn't like a scene out of some strange _romcom_. it was still far too movie like for his liking though, considering when schlatt found the kid, it was outside his fucking door.

cliche, he knows—don't get him _wrong_ , it wasn't original, but to have that happen to you in the real world? well, schlatt honestly figured that kind of shit only happened in cheesy movies, sonic underground and depressing teen flicks from two-thousand o' four. 

the kid was in a basket. outside his door. the very same door that belonged to his expensive apartment in the middle of brooklyn—honestly, made him wonder why no one else had attempted to do that before. 

it wasn't that bad of an idea when he really thought about it—at least the kid wasn't going straight to the _orphanage_ , depending on the person. and hey, maybe if the rich money bags bastard decided to not have a cold heart, the kid would grow up rich and you'd eventually be able to walk into their lives again for your well deserved money! it was a get rich quick scheme.

a brilliant one, though. schlatt would admit that much.

( yet it still made him _wonder_ when his camera's had become unplugged, stopped working or just shut off—he couldn't find who ever dropped that kid off at his door.

at least it was just a kid being dropped off at his door—really, it could have been worse. could have been much worse. well it sounds weird, extremely fucking weird, worst case scenario would have been a fucking police officer examining his dead body, unable to track his murderer down because his dumbass forgot to check his camera's—

that was the kind of luck schlatt tended to have, the kind of luck that'd probably be his downfall. )

the basket looked strange. the way it was woven, at least. it was almost in the shape of a boat—and the kid sitting within it had to have been older than two. brunette hair, eyes closed tight as he slept, covered within green blankets.

almost reminded him of noah's boat, actually—but the kid sure as hell didn't remind him of a noah. not that it mattered.

really, schlatt wasn't interested. he didn't know how to take care of a kid—and there wasn't even some stereotypical knock on his door when the kid was dropped off. he had been just leaving his house, ready to get into his tesla he had bought by himself to go and drive to burger king.

( for someone as rich as schlatt, you'd figure you wouldn't be eating fast food. or, you'd own a fast food company or some shit, and that'd be the reason you ate there regularly. but well schlatt had more than enough wealth to retire at the early age of twenty three, he didn't have the time or opportunity to come home and cook himself dinner.

and he definitely didn't own burger king—god, he fucking wishes.

having someone live in his house just to be a full time chief would be weird. sure, he paid people to come in and clean his house. that was normal, that wasn't weird. and maybe it was hypocritical, but hear him out—he didn't give a fuck. 

because that always happened well he was at work. never once did he see his cleaners, or the guy that mowed his grass and tended to his garden—he didn't meet anyone he didn't want to, constantly avoiding any unnecessary human interactions.

and reheating food that was cooked god knows when doesn't sound nearly as appealing to him as a bowl of cereal does. call him lazy—fuck, maybe he is, but coming home at three am and then cooking just sounded fucking stupid, an honest waste of his time. he could be sleeping, after all—why the fuck did he want to cook, clean and then eat?

either way, it was quick and _easy_ —it didn't waste his time. )

it was quite obvious that he wasn't responsible enough to take care of some fucking toddler—obvious enough that schlatt wouldn't be able to feed the kid on time and keep a good business persona. kid's needed time.

it was a basic rule to parenting, something too many people tended to ignore. it was kind of fucked up that schlatt understood this when even the 'best' of parent's didn't.

kid's _needed_ time, because that's how they learn to grow—they need a stable role model, a stable home. they need a mom and a dad, or something that represented one of the two. needed meals at a proper time, needed a clean place to live. but most importantly, kid's need time.

it was something he never had as a kid—time. sure, he was free to do whatever he wanted for most of his adolescent years. as long as he got good grades his father couldn't really care. or his mother, for that matter, although he never really seen her either. 

now that he thinks about it, he's pretty sure his parents were split up even before he was born—explains why they never had christmas dinner's together, explains the awkward shock of reality when schlatt finally moved out at sixteen after graduating two years early from school.

he never had time. with his father, with his family—he grew up in a pretty rushed home, and ironically landed himself back in the exact same position. it was almost as if being busy was the only thing he knew how to properly do.

nine to five, if he was lucky. if he wasn't, nine to three in the morning—that tended to be the usual. fast food for dinner, fuck, schlatt couldn't even remember the last time he ate a proper home cooked meal. couldn't remember the last time he used his expensive kitchen table to eat a meal. 

can't remember the last time he invited his equally busy siblings over for dinner. shoot. 

he was home schooled and didn't have the support he needed—school was hard, but he had to be perfect at it, requirements confinding him to only accepting perfection. he didn't like to reach out to nanny's attempting to help him, either. in his mind all of them were gross old ladies. 

he's learnt now that they were just trying to do their job and he was making it significantly harder—but the notion of gross old ladies still stayed.

( especially _helena_ , she always had kale or something stuck in her fucking teeth—disgusting. )

it was safe to say that his father wasn't a good father—

but he wasn't a _bad_ one, either. just.. _absent_ for most of his years, hell, absent even now when schlatt had all he could ever wish for.

it wasn't like schlatt wasn't trying. wasn't like his father didn't try as well. they were just busy—too busy for a family. he's sure his father wouldn't even be able to recognize him if he were walking down the street—but he didn't blame that on his father not caring.

work was important. and sure, maybe a family should be more fucking important, but when you're a CEO of a company it's not like you can drop everything and raise an abandoned fucking child you've found on your doorstep—

adopt a kid out of no where with no real life skills under your belt.

that's why he wasn't responsible enough to take care of some fucking toddler—the kid deserved an actual stable parent, which was probably why it had been dropped off at his doorstep. schlatt wasn't the guy who could give that to him.

so, great idea to drop a kid off at some wealthy guy's doorstep, but they probably fucked up considering that rich guy was none other than schlatt himself.

he wasn't the guy that could provide home cooked meals, wasn't the guy who could read bedtime stories and be patient. he wasn't raised in a family filled with love and support—he was raised by a CEO and a CEO is what he became. 

and fuck, it was almost crazy how he knew he'd go wrong, knew the ways to prevent it, but wouldn't put the time in to fix it. 

he wonders if his dad had been the same, wonders if at the time he expected nanny's and piano lessons to be enough for him. wonders if he ever felt guilty for not reaching out before it was too late, before the old coot died and—

when the kid open's it's eyes, staring toward's him with brown little hues, schlatt can't help but see something he doesn't like. actually, he sees something that instantly scares him, something he almost trembles seeing.

( he wishes he were being sarcastic—he almost goes inside, closes the door behind him and calls the cops to come deal with the little brunette bastard. )

a younger version of himself, younger than he ever remember's himself. helpless, alone and—

and schlatt panics because now he's gone and gotten himself attached to some kid he can't possibly fucking raise.

but he can't not raise the kid, either. it's like when an unmoveable force meets an unstoppable train or some shit—and schlatt's inbetween, about to be fucking crushed and he can't move.

when it comes down to it though, he's already better than his father. he's going to try—actually give it his best shot at raising a kid alone. after all, he has no one living with him, hasn't even tried to hook up with someone for god knows forever—

god, what made him think he could raise a _kid_?

"alright, guess it's fucking _fate_ then, eh..?" he says, his voice barely a whisper well picking up the kid. surprisingly it doesn't cry, just gives him a weird look—the kid, uh, he's pretty sure it's a little boy but he honestly isn't sure because he's never seen a toddler this close, just reaches out towards him.

schlatt brings him closer, let's the kid rest gently on his chest. the little dude reaches out, grabs his side burns gently and gives them a soft little tug before laughing.

it's adorable, instantly does some shit to his heart—it's an emotion he doesn't really understand, but it's definitely something he could get used to. can't help but let a chuckle slip past his own lips, can't help but smile like an idiot.

( and god is he an _idiot_ , because he definitely can't just raise a child on his own like this—but he can clean up his office, or fuck clean up one of his walk in closets. that should be enough room for a toddler. he can order a baby crib off of amazon, can go and buy toys and shit tomorrow from toysrus. 

can reach out to puffy and ranboo—and sure, maybe they're just as experienced as he is, but a little bit of advice couldn't hurt.

and he was stubborn. always had been. once he put his mind to something—well, he tended to get what he wanted.

so if he wanted this—genuinely wanted this—he could probably raise a child.

he's going to raise this kid. )

"tubbo." he says out of no where, and somehow it works. the kid doesn't come with a card, the blanket doesn't have a stitched name in it—and the kid is too young to provide his own name. 

so schlatt figures he gets to name the kid.

it's a weird name, but schlatt himself has a weird name—when it comes down to it, he ends up calling the kid— _his kid_ —tubbo. 

ends up asking puffy what the fuck he's supposed to do with a kid. 

it's definitely not easy—still hasn't gotten easier. when tubbo turns eleven, schlatt's twenty eight. it's weird being a parent so young, although he gets used to it pretty quickly. he always has comments thrown at him about how young he looks, and half the time he doesn't have the heart to tell them he really is that young.

he also is constantly told how identical him and tubbo look—and as far as tubbo is aware, he's the biological son of schlatt. schlatt doesn't really care whether or not tubbo finds out he's not—because tubbo's happy with him, he can tell that by the way the kid smiles whenever he enters a room with his father in it.

he may not be the best dad, but he's a pretty good fucking dad—or at least he thinks so.

and honestly, he's just glad his kid's fucking cool. and for an eleven year old, tubbo is pretty fucking cool. he likes art, and bee's—really likes electronics, likes playing stupid little games like minecraft.

schlatt bought him a phone specifically so the kid could play it well he wasn't at his computer, too—because tubbo created cool looking statute's and building's, and hell he even made thing's move smoothly, like doors.

schlatt's kind of embarrassed to say he doesn't even know how to walk in the game—all he knows is that the one music disc _stal_ is banned from playing in his house after the incident.

they don't talk about the incident, or stal either.

his room ended up being schlatt's office, he ended up eventually renovating to get a new office, too. painted a shade of green there. painted butterflies and bees on the walls—tubbo had painted the room by himself.

( schlatt had helped, kind of. he's never been artistic, so really he just brought snacks and did the first few coats of green paint, watching in amazement for the rest of the time. )

he's not raised on politics and work, although every day family meals doesn't become a thing either—there's cereal, a lot of cereal, and schlatt and tubbo have both learnt how to perfect toast. 

but he always takes sunday's off, now. it's his one day a week for tubbo—they talk about how school has been going, and how tubbo does all his schooling at home. 

( schlatt won't start caring about grades until grade ten, or at least that's what he always tells himself—either way, tubbo's a bright kid, already getting better grades then he ever did in science. )

tubbo's always more than interested about his father's work, and schlatt dumbs it down enough to make it sound fun—they buy out the nearest 711, always claiming all the junk food and shitty sugary drinks before having a movie night in their basement theatre. 

schlatt's a good dad, but he could be better—he realizes this when he's thirty minutes late to his meeting.

his babysitter had quit on him out of no where—won the lottery or something. it was monday, but tubbo didn't have school because it was the start of christmas holiday's—which didn't make it any easier on schlatt who was losing his fucking mind.

by the time he ended up getting his ass to work, tubbo clinging off of him, he didn't even have time to pack the kid a lunch—but he did have time to pass the kid off to the nearest guy he seen. karl, one of the office workers—newly hired, he thinks.

"yeah, _sorry_ —i've got a meeting that's about to determine whether or not this company actually becomes well known, so you're gonna take a break from your job and take care of tubbo until I'm back. my office door has my name on it—should be unlocked." was basically how the conversation went as he flew into the meeting room, ready to kiss ass for being late.

karl stood with a kid in hand, eyes darting towards the secretary of the company—sapnap—with fear in his eyes. 

* * *

he's _late_.

or nearly late at least. his shift starts in fifteen minutes, which usually he tries to make it a habit to start his shift fifteen minutes early. it looks good as an employee, or at least that's what people have told him before—sure, it's fifteen minutes he doesn't technically get paid for, but he just needs enough money to move out of new york.

it's just his fucking luck, though. waking up late, his alarm not properly going off. although he's kind of glad it didn't go off, considering if it did beamin' would have been blasting on his speakers.

( he doesn't realize this until five minutes later, though—because he was pretty sure he changed it to a little iphone jingle yesterday before he crashed out. but, one in the morning is probably not the time to decide you can't afford to piss off your elderly neighbors, right? )

he can't afford to be late—he's literally been at this job for less than a week. he was hired last tuesday—today is officially monday, and he's only worked about five shifts. 

and sure, it's the dollarstore, but he's only nineteen so what the hell do you expect. a full on office job? god no, he doesn't even think he could see himself doing that in twenty years—it's boring, and sure, working in general is boring, but he'd at least like to have some fun.

either way, it's safe to say, alex quackity is doomed.

he's been doomed the moment he graduated. the moment he received his cap and gown, graduating from his public elementary school with the swagger of a dead man. but that sounds dramatic. and maybe he is dramatic—or as dramatic as someone who didn't take life seriously could be. 

tossing on his regular old tacky track suit and beanie, he was just about to run out his door before his phone began to ring, a familiar shitty song playing in his ears.

_hold up I'm beamin—_

alex scrambled to grab his phone before it could wake up his elderly neighbors in a panic. 

"alex quackity here," he looks towards the number he didn't have a chance to fully check before realizing it's a saved contact. 'best friend 1.0' with a few eggplant emojis—shit, he knew exactly who this was. "wait—karl? what the fuck dude, I'm gonna be late to work and—." he says, putting the phone onto speaker phone with a slightly sturn tone in his voice.

"i keep forgetting quackity is your last name, it sounds so weird. like, imagine having someone call you mr. quackity." karl spews out—it's nonsense, but doesn't stop alex from snorting. okay, maybe this was just what he needed.

a pick me up, someone to joke around with. after all, he still had to walk to the dollarstore, which was probably only a five minute walk away—talking to karl wouldn't kill him, and if anything, it'd make his mood better.

grabbing his backpack, he stuffed his lunch inside of it from off the counter before rushing toward's his apartment door, kicking on his shoes.

his apartment wasn't particularly nice looking—kind of messy, littered with cans of monster energy him karl and sapnap tended to binge on. there was a giant pillow fort in the living room he had yet to clean from saturday, too, and that was just currently what he could see.

his mother would probably kill him if she ever decided to visit him, thank god that was unlikely, but still that didn't help the fact that if she did come around she'd immediately question why he had a bra tossed over his broken tv.

he really needed sapnap to buy him a new tv and get the old granny bra off his tv before someone decided to visit him. 

"karl, you're actually insane—." he says, throwing on his backpack before opening his front door, rushing out of his apartment. he didn't bother to lock it behind him, he didn't really have anything to steal other than old taco bell wrappers and a broken tv.

his apartment was on the fourth floor, meaning he had to run down the stairs and—fuck, he had about ten minutes to get to the dollarstore he worked at. 

"wait, I'll call you back—boss man just walked through the doors and I'm not supposed to be on my phone sorry _loveyoubye_." karl whispered, and that was when alex remembered that both of his best friend's worked at schlatt inc. 

it was a tech company. or something like that. actually, quackity didn't know what it was—just knew it was a booming business in brooklyn. he didn't really care, either—just knew that both sapnap and karl worked there together like some old married couple.

which would have been cute if not for the fact that it was literally just an office job. they sorted through paper work, called people, signed shit—that kind of stuff just sounded boring to him. and sure, the dollarstore wasn't any less boring, don't get him wrong, but karl and sapnap weren't even old men yet—

( but they were making a lot more money then him, that much was for sure. alex didn't have any good qualifications, though. he doesn't know how sapnap and karl got into schlatt inc, even with such low position's. he figured you needed to be really smart or something.

and sure, he wasn't stupid—but he wasn't business level suit and tie smart. the thought of something like that actually made him depressed, the idea that karl and sapnap were constantly looking fancy and were atomically bored well he got to stack shelves and dance down isles? 

even if he was being paid significantly less, it was more than fun shimming around like that. )

it seriously sounded like they were wasting their time. alex didn't want to do that. didn't want to play into society and have some normal job—sure, he had to now, but when he was older he wanted to be something cool, something significantly less boring. maybe he'd be a plummer! or the president! or hell, maybe he'd be a drug dealer and have sexy ladies surrounding him everywhere he went, with those old mobster dresses and—

sure, he had a wild imagination, but he didn't like being bored like everyone else around him. 

as long as he paid his taxes and paid his rent, no one could really tell him how to live—and as far as he was aware, he was all paid up until tomorrow—but he had enough in a savings plan to cover tomorrow's rent.

he ends up at his jobsite three minutes late, an angry mumble escaping his manager's lips. his name is techno, and he's actually really cool—minus the fact that he's kind of a dick. he's also terrifying.

the guy stands at like, six foot something, and alex himself is only five foot three. sure, he's short—but he's more than capable at doing the shit techno asks him to, even if he doesn't always enjoy moping the floors.

he's just about to clock in and start his shift when—

_hold up I'm beamin', yUH when your bitch see me up on the stage ahHHH you know she's screamin'—_

alex nearly suffers from a heart attack when he jumps for his bag, a disappointed loud sigh escaping from his manager's lips as he passes the staff door—and really, he can't help but have his face turn red as he swipes to answer the call.

"karl, what the _fuck_?" he blurts out, hand brushing falling hair out of his face as he adjusts his beanie. he really needs to change his ringtone before that happens again, why the fuck did it not change last night?

( did he maybe change his notification sound? god, he was going to be pissed—it was sapnap screaming originally, and if he needed to record that again he swore to god. ) 

"alex oh my god _i_ _need you here right now, I'm literally going to die and sapnap doesn't know what to do either and please alex hurry_ —." karl began to ramble out, completely not making any sense to alex.

he stood there with his dollarstore apron barely on, tapping his foot as he tried to process what the hell karl was saying—but he couldn't process it no matter how hard he tried, only knowing that karl was apparently freaking out at his place of work.

_schlatt inc._

he could grab a cab there and figure out what the hell was happening and—he suddenly realizes he's still at work, hasn't even started his shift yet and was late today.

" _fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck_ —." is what makes him decide, though. karl silently swearing into his speaker—obviously something bad has happened, and alex isn't a bad friend. 

maybe that's his biggest weakness.

( he's extremely loyal, to the point he'd literally die for both karl and sapnap if given the chance. kind of like a golden retriever, kind of like a puppy. he's just as feral as well, the perfect mix for a five foot three nerd. )

"yeah okay I'll be right there dude, just—just calm down, okay?" he says, sighing as he takes off his apron and grabs his backpack, quickly hanging up.

he's nearly through the doors when he hears techno yelling at him—and maybe it's immature, but instead of explaining himself he just runs. after all, he's bound to be fired anyways—techno has anger issues, or at least alex thinks so.

one cab ride later he's standing in front of the biggest building he's ever seen.

It's a white skyscaper, nearly reaching up to the clouds. with large revolving doors, easy access and no body guards alex almost feels like he's still somehow intruding—men walk in and out wearing full suits, and he's standing there like an idiot.

wearing a track suit.

a blue and white fucking track suit.

he holds his breath before stepping forwards, holding onto his backpack before nodding gently as if to convince himself he belongs here.

( karl needs him—something's gone wrong and karl needs him. fuck, sapnap probably needs him too—and he'd do anything for his friend's. )

the revolving door nearly hits him when he steps through, and almost instantly he stops, staring towards sapnap.

"thank fucking god—," the man says, and he's actually not wearing a suit. he's in regular everyday clothes, sitting behind a counter—and karl, standing beside the desk sapnap is sitting behind looks just as normal.

there's a kid though, that's not normal.

( he's kinda really skinny, but not in a bad way—more like the kid's probably really active kind of way. he's wearing a light green dress shirt with a brown sweater thrown over, a bee pin on the front pocket. he's tiny, maybe around the size of a ten year old? 

he's definitely the reason karl's panicking, considering as soon as he sees alex enter the building a giant frown is knocked off his face, replaced with a small smile—and the kid looks happy too, minus the fact he looks like he was just glaring daggers at sapnap.

what the fuck did he just get himself into? ) 

"uhhh, what the heck?" alex asks, brows raised as he steps further into the ground floor. he doesn't want to swear, not around a kid—especially a kid who looks kinda more wealthy then him. he's really young too, and well alex may not be the best influence, he's not going to swear at a kid in english. if he needs to get a point across, it'll be in spanish.

as soon as he's a foot away from karl the kid's running towards him. alex doesn't even stumble back, he just kind of stands there. the kid doesn't look violent—he doesn't think that's why karl called him, anyways. he was probably just freaking out about the kid being there in general.

it would make sense, after all. karl and sapnap had never been the best with kids. they learnt this when wilbur visited them one day with his little brother tommy—ah shit, he has to apologize to wilbur, techno is that guy's brother, isn't he? biological twin? older by what, two minutes? he's pretty sure wilbur told him the whole story—actually, wilbur's probably the only reason he got the job.

yikes.

anyways, the kid eventually stands behind him, clinging to his leg like some lost puppy—karl taking a few steps forward with a sigh of relief.

"can you—can you _please_ babysit?" he asks, and quackity knew it was inevitably coming. he didn't know how to watch over a kid, but he'd probably do a better job than both karl and sapnap combined.

he glanced down toward's the kid, still glaring toward's sapnap before biting the bottom of his lip.

"yeah, but sapnap is buying me a tv before the new year." he says, and sapnap instantly stands from behind the front desk, snapping his finger in the air.

"fuck yeah baby, boxing day—now get that kid out of here already." he says, glaring back towards the child. alex almost finds it humorous, after all, it's literally just a kid—wasn't like sapnap should be holding any life long grudges against him.

looking down toward's the kid, though, he seems about equally ready to leave, grabbing onto alex's hand before pulling him forwards. 

"he said he didn't like bees—you like bees, right mister.. mister quackity? that's your name, right?" the kid asks, and alex is already surprised—kid probably overheard the conversation karl and him had been having before. or maybe one of them mentioned him? 

either way, alex shakes his head—a simple no before explaining why. "actually, my name is _alex_. but if you want to call me quackity, that's totally cool—not mister though, makes me sound old. and i think bees are pretty cool—i like your bee pin, too."

"how old are you?" the kid asks, leading alex into an elevator. it's huge, and really looks expensive—kind of like the rest of the building. it doesn't look like your regular old office building. it looks expensive and over done, in a way alex had never seen before.

there are ram horns everywhere, too. or at least that's what he's noticing. most walls have them displayed either in paintings or pictures—and there's golden horns on each particularly expensive looking doorways. 

"I'm nineteen, actually—just turning twenty. how old are you? and uh, what's your name _senõr_?" he says jokingly, causing the kid to snicker ever so slightly as he pushes a button on the elevator.

the doors close before he responds, and suddenly alex realizes he's being lead somewhere—and he genuinely doesn't know where he's being lead, and that's gotta be a huge red flag.

( although the kid seems pretty harmless, and it's kind of too fancy of a building for him to be mugged. so he's not nervous—just slowly getting more alarmed, hoping that he wasn't being lead somewhere weird. the kid probably knew how to get around, though.

maybe they were going to his parent's office? or maybe—uh, there was like a lunch room or something? really, alex doesn't know. won't act or pretend like he knows. all he does know, is that he's kind of surprised he got fired over something like this.

worth it, though. totally worth it. )

"I'm eleven—and my name is tubbo!" tubbo says, and alex can't help but smile. when the elevator comes to a sudden stop and there's a tug on his hand again, he follows.

until they're in the biggest fucking office he's ever seen, ram horns protruding out of the wall—it's all black and red, with hints of gold here and there.

and alex has no doubt in his mind that the gold is real.

they seem to be on the top floor, too, which is kind of worrisome considering he doesn't see any other office doors—or at least, not assigned one's. doesn't look like there's anyone behind those closed doors.

doesn't look like those doors have been opened in awhile.

with an overwhelming lump in his throat he glances to tubbo—who finds himself sitting down on an expensive looking chair.

almost looks like a throne, too.

and well on the throne—chair, whatever you'd want to call it, he's sitting there with a bee plushie, softly buzzing as he raises it up toward's the roof. as if he were home—as if he's terrifyingly comfortable.

what the _fuck_ had he gotten himself into.


	2. the past & the future.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ( tw for minor mentions of blood, minor death and other schlatt related things ) 
> 
> there's blood dripping down his nose, it touches his lips and he can taste it—metallic and disgusting. he doesn't bother to wipe it away, though, doesn't bother to clean himself up. he knows he deserves it, he knows damn well that he's fucked up—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so you're getting two chapters because this one was too angsty to post alone and i FELT bad. also??? holy shit???? thank you for all the amazing comments and shit <3 dude's you're all so coOL WTF

it was a year after he graduated. 

they didn't do much for his graduation, his father busy with work. it was expected—he was always busy with work. never once had schlatt seen him calm and relaxed, sitting down without immediately taking a phone call. 

he had gray hairs already, salt and pepper beard—he looked withered, aged beyond his years. schlatt never understood why, not until he was older at least. it had to have been the stress of work, the pressure of being a CEO.

( schlatt for the longest time feared that he too would look that old by the time he hit thirty, feared that he'd look withered away with a foot half in the grave—he'd rather be dead before then, didn't want to deal with looking like that. )

whenever his father spent a few moments on him—wasted his seemingly precious time on the son he had given life to—it was always something about a new international currency. schlatt didn't understand it, wouldn't pretend to understand it.

it sounded stupid, and his father barely had a proper name for it yet—sounded like a scam, a bait for money. schlatt wouldn't pretend he liked it, but he wouldn't vocalize his opinion either—these rare times his father explained it to him were something that made his week.

he could remember what his father's voice actually sounded like, and well that wasn't enough—he was greedy, wanted more than he could sink his teeth into—it was good enough for now.

as his father had explained it time and time before, it was a type of currency that could be used online. it was his legacy. his will to live. the project that'd be game end—something that he'd work himself to the grave if he had to. to complete it. to get the idea out there. the first of it's kind, something never done before—

a technological outbreak. 

this was what he always claimed. that some day, years into the future, when he'd pass on—when he inevitably _died_ —that the company would go to his children.

schlatt never told him how depressing that sounded. building yourself up only to claim at the ripe age of thirty five that you had already written the will to your fortune. building your company up, only to die before it became a real legacy.

gray hair, tired bagged out eyes. a life of boredom—a life without family. it was about as fucking useful as a popped tire, and another currency was just what the world needed—another reason to fight, another reason for wars.

it was something schlatt was convinced he'd never do—stubborn and hot headed he assured himself that he'd never follow in his father's footsteps. he'd never have children, for one, never let anyone in—he didn't need to take a wife to be strong, didn't need anyone on his side.

after all, when had he ever had that before?

it was always work, schlatt remember's, and after awhile he just got used to it. he didn't complain—he sat there obedient. schlatt was never obedient—but a father figure who was never a real father in the first place wouldn't have realized that, now would he? 

schlatt couldn't blame him—he didn't know anything about his father, too. the most he knew was that the man could drink his fair share of wine and champagne—his favorite one's coming from france and italy. 

up until schlatt graduated he had never drank anything alcoholic—that was something he proudly claimed that he'd also never do. silently making sure he never ended up like his father—silently assuring himself he'd end up alone.

he didn't fight to see his father, wasn't stubborn about it. and maybe that was the scariest part. before then schlatt had always been someone who wasted time—sure, he got his work done, but never once did he not have fun with it.

he graduated with honors, the best possible grades someone could get and—and his father said _nothing_. there was no gift, no nod of approval—just a silent question lingering in the air.

( _so, when are you gonna leave my house then, schlatt?_ ) 

it was the first time ever schlatt had completely accepted nothing he could ever do would help.

there was no problem for him to solve, no quest for him to embark on. this wasn't like tv, wasn't like the show's he had grown up watching—he didn't know what he was expecting, considering his relationship with his father had never been stable.

it had always been silent, always been like this—they didn't talk, never sitting down at the kitchen table all at the same time. hell, it was rare if he ate with puffy and ranboo—which in the long run is probably why he has such strange eating habits.

schlatt gave up. things got easier. 

( for schlatt, he treated this as a mile stone—no longer was he dependent on someone who wouldn't be sticking around. it was what he needed—it was what happened to be practical. son's of CEO's were supposed to be practical and—

and not stupid. not ridiculously stupid.

they weren't supposed to sit in front of their father's office door, stupid ram plushie in hand as they waited—for something, anything. to play card's like normal families do, the one's on tv that always seem so much happier.

for schlatt, it was when he realized rum was a healthy substitute for what he had been missing—the warmth in his chest everyone else seemed to feel. sure, the side effects of being wasted were never as welcomed as the heat but he could grow a tolerance to it. 

he needed to.

because for the first time in forever he felt warm—

but he couldn't just waste his time like that. )

puffy, his elder sister—well, she had tried celebrating the big event. god bless her, truly. she woke him up early, the day after he had walked across the stage in a cap and gown—gotten him a gun as a gift, a _glock g23_ —and made sure he was well dressed before driving him and ranboo out of brooklyn and into new york.

a trip to a shitty little restaurant, just the three of them—ranboo had to have been around twelve back then, and puffy—well she was definitely twenty. 

the trip didn't go well, schlatt pissy enough to cause a scene—he was over it, he really was, had long since realized his father just wouldn't be around.

( he was thankful, don't get him wrong—but it felt more out of pity then anything. his father didn't even congratulate him, didn't even bother to get him a gift—but puffy did. did he even _deserve a gift?_ was it even an achievement—he wonders what his father's transcript looks like.

when his father graduated, whether or not he was any good at school. wonders what his grades were and whether or not he has the right to seemingly judge schlatt, stare blankly towards him without any love in his eyes—

schlatt wonders if it really is his fault for being so fucking _pathetic_ , so fucking _emotional_. )

that didn't make it hurt any less. he was too selfish to see his sibling's were hurting, too.

a year after he graduated, the pain had not resided.

he finds himself sitting in a bar, fingers tapping away at the counter. dawned in one of his most expensive suit's he felt out of place—and the ladies who had been hitting on him all night had only ever gotten a little more than a glare in response.

he wasn't interested, didn't want a quick fuck with some sleazy chick—

from rum to whisky to just about anything a bar could supply him, schlatt constantly made sure he felt warm. 

obviously, puffy didn't like this. there wasn't much he could do, or at least, there wasn't anything he was willing to do—he realized it was a bad habit, as equally a bad habit as his father's tendancy to smoke cigars.

schlatt didn't care. why should he? he wasn't here to live to the ripe age of fifty—fuck, he didn't even want to live past twenty at the rate he was going. no job, living off his savings account—or, his father's savings account.

( and why the _fuck_ should he listen to puffy? no, actually—who was she to tell him that he was useless? stupid for doing what he's been doing? at least he's, well, he's not happy, but he's been in a better mood, and that's what counts, right? 

so what if he's constantly drunk or nursing a bottle of fireball. so what if when he starts to sober up, he just starts drinking again—he doesn't drive, doesn't walk around the streets a drunken mess. he normally goes home before it's even that bad.

and he hasn't taken anyone home yet, hasn't gotten a sleazy chick pregnant yet—he's been doing good. been doing great, if he says so himself.

he should be praised—not yelled at.

since when did puffy become so self righteous? they were just human—in the same exact position. wasn't like much had changed since he graduated, and so what if he was wasted potential.

he'd rather off himself then go to some prestigious university. he's thought about it, trust him—obviously money isn't the issue. he could get tons of scholarships if needed, simply by mentioning his father's name—he just didn't want to go.

couldn't stomach going. he'd be the center of attention, everyone would try and surround him—he's never been comfortable being the center of attention, never been comfortable standing there with his arms wide open to greet people.

sure, he wants attention—but not stranger's attentions. he wants to know he's doing a good job, doesn't want to be lied to by someone trying to suck up to him—it's dehumanizing, it's annoying.

annoying to have people literally kissing his balls and ass for friendship because he's rich. the idea makes him sick, sick enough to down yet another glass of whisky—there's about twelve empty glasses lined up in front of him that haven't been taken yet.

if puffy seen that, she'd probably hit him across the face. probably fuck him up, leave him bleeding on a street corner.

he didn't really care at this point—at least he'd feel something. or, something worth while. something that didn't waste his time. ) 

so when schlatt got the first of many phone calls that night, he just ignored them. put them on silence. he didn't hesitate—didn't stress over it. it was coming from puffy, who was no doubt wanting to rant at him for drinking underage—

but hey, no one dared to say the word no when you're a CEO's son with enough money to buy the building out. perks, amiright? 

one call turned into seven, seven turning into thirty two—schlatt still didn't pick up, not once that night, so puffy eventually took matters into her own hand.

puffy eventually stormed into the bar.

long white hair and gentle blue eyes—something about her had always been pure, like a saint or some shit.

or maybe schlatt was just really hallucinating, because he also figured she looked like a goat. he had just finished a bottle of whisky to himself when he's smacked across the head—forced to look at the dumbass who's decided to start a bar brawl with him.

only to realize it's his elder sister, angry and bitter, looking towards him.

" _schlatt_." he knew he was going to hear it—it was inevitably coming at this point, the way she was glaring daggers at him only proving his point. she didn't seem pleased, didn't seem happy with their current situation—not that schlatt could blame her.

later on when he sobered up he realized just how embarssing this must have been—later on when he treated a throbbing headache, he'd be mourning.

( to no fault but his own, such a cursed child. it was as if this had been his fate the moment he stepped foot on the earth, the moment he had decided that he'd breathe his first breath. it was as if someone had a vendetta against his father, wanted him dead or some shit—wanted him to _hurt_.

and in the process his father was unaffected, never letting anyone get close enough to him in order to be hurt.

schlatt envied it. needed it. the ability to forget the world so quickly, to focus only on himself. he doesn't know whether or not that makes him a narcissist—but he doesn't like himself enough to be a narcissist, doesn't like his hair, his face—it's empty and bland, and if you asked him he looked like a _twink_. 

he didn't look like a CEO's well respected son—he looked like a child, baby face still intact.

bad luck followed him everywhere, squeezing onto him like some phantom. he didn't get the choice to be normal, didn't have the opportunity to be happy—sure, he becomes rich and famous, but it's not like he wants that _either_. 

for the longest time, schlatt just wants to be happy.

for the longest time, he's still disappointed. )

"puffy." he finally says after quite some time. the bar has continued on now—but before everyone was staring. hell, some people still are. suddenly schlatt feels extremely warm, suddenly he needs to step outside—

it's not the good kind of warm, not the warm he wants. it's a heated embarrasment, a notion that he's definitely fucked up.

"let's step outside." puffy says, slamming three hundred dollars on the bar counter. "keep the change." she says, glancing up towards the bartender before turning around, walking out of the bar as if nothing had happened—schlatt stands and follows her.

and when he's outside, he instantly hits the fucking concrete.

his cheek and jaw are throbbing, what he doesn't see is there's a decent sized welt forming on his head—puffy decided to throw fists, and schlatt wasn't sober enough to follow through and attack back.

( there's blood dripping down his nose, it touches his lips and he can taste it—metallic and disgusting. he doesn't bother to wipe it away, though, doesn't bother to clean himself up. he knows he deserves it, he knows damn well that he's fucked up—

sure, that doesn't give puffy the _right_ to hit him, doesn't give puffy the right to do something like that but—he's not angry about it, not as angry as he should be, at least. )

nor did he want to—he knew damn well it'd be one battle he would not win.

"fuck.." he slurred out, rolling over onto the side walk before pressing a hand against his jar, just where she had struck.

it aches a little too much, makes him feel nauseous. but puffy seems just about as happy as she's ever been, gently shaking her fist as she stands above him. 

"you're a bastard, a miserable little—." she begins before leaning against a metal pole. a street light. it's dark outside, but the street light hadn't turned on yet—not until puffy leaned against it, arm's crossing over her chest. 

"he's in the hospital and you're in new york drinking yourself to death—schlatt, how fuckin' irresponsible do you have to be?" she asks, and suddenly the pain goes away—

because schlatt knows exactly who she's talking about, even without wanting to know.

( he wants to speak, wants to ask why the _fuck_ he should care—but he knows it's something he'll regret in the morning, knows it's something that'll be held against him—

but he doesn't care, and maybe that's the rum, whisky and mixed drinks speaking for him—he doesn't care, but he needs to, in order to keep everything together. )

he doesn't respond—he just calls a cab.

his father is dead three hours later. heart attack, something about two strokes—it's something he was expecting, something they were all expecting.

just not this soon.

just not like _this_.

the will is read before the funeral—the sexist bastard leaves _everything_ to him, the eldest son. he's only seventeen when he inherits a company. 

( he's only seventeen when he finds tubbo on his doorstep, four months later before christmas. )

he tries to hand it over to puffy, but she doesn't want it—what she does want is their mansion, want's duel ownership with ranboo so he'll eventually inherit it when he's old enough. they each get a part of their father's wealth, and inevitably his father has no one else he gave anything to.

for some reason schlatt feels _empty_.

for some reason he picks up smoking cigars, only to try and cut out the bad habit when tubbo is finally around.

he doesn't though, just enables his bad habits away from his kid—the kid who'll have a better child hood then he ever had. 

he's seventeen when he finds tubbo on that doorstep, and by the time he's twenty he's renamed the whole brand he inherited—they focus on building technology now. there's a whole line of schlatt computers, schlatt phones—they're slowly gaining traction by the time he's turned twenty four, and suddenly he can focus on something big.

_schlattcoins_. 

because if someone has to _deal_ with his father's legacy, it's him. it's the reason he inherited the business, after all. schlatt knows it should have been a priority, but he's making up for what his father lacked—no one respected his father's business back in the day, not the way they respect his business now. 

his father never intimidated people, never made heads turn—schlatt can, and he uses it to his advantage when possible. he knows when to charge and when to cower, knows when to kiss ass and when to demand respect—

he's not stupid, and for the first time in years knows this to be true.

( and he owes it to tubbo. owes every last thing to _tubbo_. without him, schlatt doesn't think anything would have gone his way—doesn't think he would have been nearly as successful as he is now. he wasn't mature enough, or fuck, even responsible as a kid.

as a teenager he was worse, wreckless and prone to fucking thing's up because he wanted attention—in the end it wasn't ever worth it, and still to this day he doesn't know why he tried.

but tubbo, _his kid_ , that's all it ever took for him to realize just what he needed to do. to realize just what he could do, as both a parent and as a CEO. and sure, he's not perfect—would never claim to be perfect, but with tubbo at his side he has a reason to try.

a reason to build the business up as best as he possibly can. a reason to gather resources and build connections. a reason to keep food on the table, to have sugary cereal to eat when it's late at night.

the kid who showed up on his doorstep—the kid who helped him realize what he can do. his kid. _his kid_. ) 

and he wants his son to have a good life, want's him to have a stable life. schlatt doesn't plan on leaving anytime soon, but if he does—

he doesn't want tubbo to ever have to work a day in his life. 

if he can make it so that tubbo's children, if the guy ever chooses to have any, wouldn't have to work, he'd do it in a heartbeat too. he knows it's going to be hard, knows it'll be tiring.

but he can't help but try anyways—after all, he's stubborn. he's ready to waste his time. 

the blond in front of him seemed to buy into his arse kissing apology. thank god for that. he doesn't know what he'd do if they just walked out, deemed schlatt unprofessional because he was late. then again, he doesn't know if he'd still respect the blond and his company nearly as much as he does now if he'd walk out over something like that.

especially when schlatt was a single father, his babysitter had just fucked off and he had no one to watch his kid—he doesn't share that information, though, figures it leaves him too vunerable.

that's something schlatt tries to avoid—being left vunerable. he needs to be strong no matter where he is, no matter who he's with—even if he doesn't have the upper hand in this situation.

the blond seemed to proudly watch as schlatt explained what he needed, as he presented his pitch to them all. it was almost as if he had walked into the room with an opinion already stuck in his head.

a strong liking toward's schlatt inc, or at least that's all schlatt could hope for—he didn't know if it was true, didn't know if dream actually was that impressed. all he knows is that this office is too bland to impress anyone, or at least he thinks so.

it lacks his _horns_ , all his good liquors—and it's too early to offer any anyways, he'd get a weird look, that much was for sure. he could try his hand at a breakfast wine, but with out breakfast to go with it, that'd probably be weird too. 

lacking everything else he has to offer, schlatt just keeps everyone's interests on himself—explaining just what his company was built on, just what schlattcoin and schlatt inc it's self strives to be.

schlattcoin technology has been out for awhile now—the concept, at least. it's how you can pay for things on their app store, using saved up credit's—so far that's just the trial, the test to see if they actually work. so far? their audience adores them. 

it's new, it's refreshing—the idea of not having to use ' _real_ ' money to buy something is interesting, and hell, the lingering idea that you can forward coins between accounts is also getting his market demographic excited.

when the first half of the presentation itself ends, they disband for lunch—but schlatt doesn't leave the room, nervously pacing up and down before the very same blond man from before stops him, grabbing his attention. dream—that's his name. he runs a company called _dreamSMP_ , specializes in financing and business—and technology.

his business partner fundy codes everything on their website, for released video's—it's _overwhelming_ , the stuff they out out. it's something schlatt himself would never be able to understand, something he probably should have gone to university for when he still had the chance.

either way he's fucking glad someone stops him from getting too far into his mind—god, how he'd kill for a cigar right now.

"schlatt," dream says, and offers out a hand—schlatt accepts it, taking it in his own leather gloved hand. 

the kid—he's definitely _younger_ than schlatt—has bright green eyes and a strong jawline. he radiates the same powerful energy schlatt always tries to display—and he doesn't have bad tastes in suit's, either.

( although schlatt prefers black suits, _tailored_ specifically to his own body—black and white, simplistic. red tie, always a red tie—it was the color of power, after all.

the color of war.

dream himself seemed to fancy a white suit. it was still tailored, but different—it was still a three piece style, too, but the _abnormal_ green dress shirt is what threw him off. bright green, about as green as dream's eyes—his tie was white, as well as his vest, and schlatt figured he probably stuck out like a sore thumb.

probably wanted to.

rarely did dream meet with people in person, the opportunity schlatt had been given was insane—this was the very same man that ran corporate banks, the very same man that ruled over new york.

fuck, he could be running a fucking _drug business_ on the side and schlatt would still kneel to him—he needed this guy to be on his side or else he was screwed. )

"I say we call this meeting early." dream says, glancing towards his business partner—white suit, orange dress shirt—and schlatt doesn't know whether to cry or die from embarrasment right there.

was his presentation really that _bad_ —fuck, he knew he set up a bad impression with the way he came in late, but he's a single father and—

"I agree, dré—i don't think anything else could convince me just how much dreamSMP needs this _opportunity_." fundy says, taking a step forwards with a grin.

with a _shit eating_ grin.

oh those bastards, they knew exactly what they were doing—schlatt grins back, winking before he spoke. "glad you fine men like what you see. let's end this meeting, then—reschedule for next week, where we can comfortably talk about what a completely online banking system would look like." he claims, and dream smiles.

"thank _god_ —we are not bringing all our assistants next time, fundy. it's driving me insane, they keep gawking at me." he says, glancing towards his partner—fundy seems to nod, crossing his arms ever so slightly.

"next time we can meet in my personal office. i think you'll find it much more to your liking." schlatt finally adds, and after a formal goodbye he's free—fucking free.

he loosens his tie the moment dream and fundy walk out. he light's a victory cigar, and fuck, even goes as far as to poor himself a glass of scotch. only a singular glass, though—he makes sure of it. 

it doesn't take him long to head out of the office—doesn't take him long to stand by the front desk, leaning on it ever so slightly. 

smoke leaves his mouth, spreading over the lobby room—the familiar scent of tobacco finally reaches his nose, filling up his lungs.

he suddenly feels way better—far more relaxed. maybe he'll take tubbo to mcdonald's for a celebratory dinner—or a fancier restaurant, but it was no secret that tubbo preferred the play place over steak dinner.

sapnap is typing away at his computer, but stops immediately after he catches a glimpse of schlatt—he looks towards the other, eyes wide. "oh, uh, _hello_ —you're out of your meeting already?" he asks, his tone that of which matches confusion.

schlatt stands up with a shit eating grin, brushing a hand over his mutton chops—he kind of needs to shave, but it's not nearly as bad as it once was when he first started growing them out.

"yeah, dream gave me the okay a little early, huh? guess he likes the concept. anyways, same time next week. book me for the full day, understood?" schlatt says, and sapnap smiles back ever so slightly.

" _jesus_ —good job, sir." leaves his lips before he's typing away again—leaving schlatt to take a sip from his scotch glass before heading toward's the elevator.

his office was on the top floor, after all—and he really didn't feel like walking up the stairs, even if he knew it'd probably be good for him.

as schlatt dissipates out of view, sapnap pauses, quickly calling up karl—he glances behind him, momentarily stressing out.

when karl picks up, sapnap let's it all lose—it's like broken flood gates, and he knows his word's probably don't make sense, but for once he's seriously lost his chill. 

"dude, dude _oh my god_ he's—the meeting ended _early_. he's heading up to his office, i repeat, _schlatt_ is heading up to his office—text quackity to get out of there right now." he whispers into his speaker phone, can't hear whether or not karl responds before he hangs up, nervously tapping his nails against the desk.

quackity is in the _lion's den_ , about to be eaten and no one other than quackity can save himself—and sure, schlatt might get angry at the fact tubbo was alone, but if he finds a random stranger sitting with his kid—

well, sapnap definitely wants his shift to end early, that much is for sure. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this all stems from the fact that domeone once told me that all schlatt watchers have daddy issues and I'm not even ashamed.


	3. talk of mothers (without men)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "like," he says, swallowing the mouthful of churro chip and honey before grabbing his water bottle, taking a sip. "like, a woman who hangs around you often, and cooks dinner and—uh, she seems really loving and stuff?" he finishes the moment he swallows the water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tubbo was not taught gender norms because schlatt just couldn't be bothered, besides the kid doesn't even like blue or pink, he likes green and bees—that's all that really matters, right?
> 
> ( also you're finally getting some proper interactions, and it only took like 13,000k words! happy holidays losers <3 )

he couldn't take it all in.

he had been trying to for an hour now. staring toward's nothing and everything at the same time. statues of gold, random bits of metal—the glass coffee table in front of him. 

he thinks it's crystal glass, too, but he doesn't _actually_ understand what crystal glass is, just knows his mother used to curse him out for fucking with her crystal glass cups. 

( he's honestly clueless in this situation. it's very rare that someone or something can cause alex quackity to go speechless, it's even rarer for that to last more then five minutes—and it's nearly been an hour, _it's nearly been an hour._

he doesn't know whether or not he should be _panicking_ , but he's pretty sure being absolutely calm in this situation would be weirder then not panicking what so ever. or at least that's what he'd like to convince himself. 

he's pretty sure he's right—most normal people don't just walk into an office this big and think _oh yes I'm totally gonna lounge here with this kid and not get in trouble because of it._

but tubbo look's _comfortable_ —still terrifyingly comfortable. it's like he's been here before, it's like he knows where everything is. alex doesn't want to believe this is the father's office, doesn't want to think that the kid is related to someone this fucking wealthy.

he has no clue what to do, has no clue what he can do. he's scared to move, scared to make a wrong step. if the kid's dad is really this wealthy, he doesn't want to know what could possibly happen to him if he fucked something up.

maybe that's crazy—maybe he _sounds_ crazy. he figure's he does, he probably does. at least he doesn't have to say it out loud, even if the only person he'd be saying it to would be tubbo.

but he's pretty sure that anything that could possibly happen to him wouldn't be positive, wouldn't be a well welcomed experience. after all, he's not rich—he's not poor either, but he's definitely middle class, and he knows damn well that breaking anything in this room would probably empty his whole savings account.

and then some. )

it wasn't happening. it just wouldn't happen no matter how hard he tried. there was no way he was going to wrap his mind around this, no way he was going to understand what the hell was happening.

or at least, he was pretty sure there was no way he'd ever process this. it sounded simple enough—karl called him, he picked up, karl was freaking out, he ended up coming here and meeting tubbo. tubbo brought him here and now, well that was it. it should have been easy to grasp and understand.

it was safe to say alex quackity was completely confused— _completely fucked._

( because he sure as hell wasn't meant to be here. this couldn't be the father's office—there was no fucking way. looking toward's the ram horns, alex couldn't help but squirm on the couch, an uncomfortable look spread across his face.

this guy didn't have a kid, this guy was like—like a fucking hunter or some shit! and alex wasn't here to be prey, wasn't here to get hunted down by some crazy dude. 

then again, he doesn't think leaving the kid alone is an option either. karl asked him—he was getting a tv out of it. there was no way he was going to leave this office—not until karl or the dad showed up.

he just hoped the kid didn't decide he wanted to go wander off somewhere—because in a building this huge, alex knew he'd get lost almost instantly. )

the room was huge. the building it's self was fucking huge, but quackity doesn't think he's ever stood in a room this big—fuck, his bedroom wasn't even this big.

hell, he doesn't think his whole fucking apartment is as big as this room. it's insane—why would one man need this much room? it was almost like he lived in here or something—but alex genuinely doubts that. the room isn't dirty, doesn't have anything out of place.

for someone to not only be this rich, but also an absolute clean _freak_ just didn't make sense to alex in any shape or form. but then again, with this kind of money, the guy could probably hire personal cleaners—

and _hit-men_.

( maybe he's just making insane connections, but people go missing in new york all the time—people go missing in brooklyn all the time. alex doesn't want to be one of the few people who do end going missing—

alex doesn't want to be involved with rich people, gangster's or businesses this big. he's not stupid, america is a dangerous place—especially for people like him. as wreckless as he is with life, he's not completely ready to go and say fuck it. )

god, was be going to die because of karl? he hadn't even lived yet—what about his disney land virginity! he hasn't even had any interesting near death experiences! 

for a moment it made him wonder just how rich this kid's dad was, before ultimately deciding he was probably fucking loaded. and honestly? 

alex wanted nothing to do with it. 

this wasn't a good situation. wasn't even a decent situation—he was in some guy's office. some extremely loaded guy with more money than he could probably even fucking imagine—with the dude's kid. 

yeah, he was definitely going to get assassinated or some shit—and alex didn't want to die, thank you very fucking much.

raising his hand up he signs a cross over his chest, mumbling in his native tongue as he prayed, asking for jesus christ's forgiveness for when he inevitably ends up at the pearly white gates of heaven. 

( he figured it'd help, figured that maybe if jesus knew he wasn't trying to get his teeth cracked on the sidewalk and a cap in his ass he'd still be accepted into heaven. not that he's really done anything wrong, other than being an idiot of course. ) 

"do you know my dad?" tubbo suddenly asks—and he's still sitting down in the.. the throne. it's literally shaped like a throne. a throne. what kind of guy gets a custom made seat that looks like a throne—what kind of guy is he even dealing with? why didn't karl warn him?

alex just stares blankly for a moment or two, silently saying amen before taking a deep breath.

he counts his blessings, of which he currently does not have many, before answering the kid's question.

"nah. not really—i'm a friend of karl and sapnap, _though_." he says, leaning ever so slightly into the couch he had slumped down onto. "uh, I don't work for you dad either." he adds, shrugging ever so slightly as he speaks.

the kid is probably weirded out too—except he still looks terrifyingly calm, holding up his little bee plushie with a small smile. 

"cool! where do you work then? can we visit there?" the kid asks, eyes doubling in size as he asks—he looks adorable, and alex almost finds himself immediately saying yes before realizing what the hell he would be getting himself into.

goddamnit, fuck his soft spot for kid's—he'd make a _terrible_ parent, wouldn't be able to say no unless it was something extremely stupid. 

( and even then, he'd probably say yes if the kid asked hard enough—and if it was something candy related? well, alex had a sweet tooth himself, he wouldn't even be able to lie saying _dinner_ would be better than a chocolate bar—

actually, food in general sounds amazing right now. )

"well.. 'm _technically_ jobless at the moment. just.. quit my job today," he says, lying ever so slightly. he doesn't want to let the kid know he was fired specifically for this reason—and hey, if he's lucky, wilbur can just convince techno to let him work there again.

or at least he hopes wilbur would be able to. making an actual resume sounded boring—sounded so fucking dull.

tubbo stares toward's him before frowning ever so slightly. "are you sure? i can ask daddy to give you a job _and_ —." tubbo begins, and alex quickly let's out a muffled wheeze, shaking his head no.

"nah, I'll be perfectly fine—thanks for offering though, tubbo." he says before grabbing his backpack, unzipping it before pulling out his lunch. churro chips and honey, and a bottle of water to wash it all down. opening it up he set it down on the table, glancing toward's tubbo with a smile.

"you aren't allergic to cinnamon, right?" he asks, and cautiously tubbo shakes his head no. he hops off the chair holding his little bee plushie within his arms. soon he's sitting down beside alex on the couch, grabbing a chip before dunking it into the honey.

"what's this called?" he asks, tilting his head to the side before taking a bite out of it. his eyes widen, glancing toward's alex before glancing back toward's the snack.

"churro chips." he begins, and tubbo instantly nods, mumbling the same phrase under his breath as if he were trying to remember what they were called. it was pretty cute—the way he was staring down towards the rest of the chip in his hand.

almost as if it could possibly disappear the moment he looked away.

"i made them home-made yesterday." alex adds, and tubbo just glances up towards him really quickly before back to the chip.

"you.. _made_ these?" the concept seems foreign to him—and honestly, alex doesn't understand why. but then again the kid is only eleven, and he probably has been pampered. 

( alex figures the dad probably has like, twenty personal chef's. probably has thirty different cleaners, one for each room in their huge mansion—he's already not liking the dad, that's safe to say.

he's never liked rich business men, doesn't think this guy is gonna be the first—especially with just how rich he already seems. alex has never stood to someone that rich before, that much he can guarantee you—

he's never seen someone this rich in person, so that'll be a whole new reality shock, he's sure. )

"yeah, i made 'em." alex says with a smile. "they're really easy to make, only take like, maybe half an hour at most." which is entirely true—although the first time he attempted to make them, the clean up was thirty minutes as well.

he's gotten better at making them since then, they no longer stick to the pan. and thank god for that—ruining pans was always a pain in the ass, considering the next time his mother visits she'd probably attempt to ground him. 

"do you _normally_ cook your own food?" the kid asks, and alex holds in a muffled snort. so he was definitely right, huh? rich daddy had cooks—fuck, karl owed him more than a tv for this, he'd be getting a few cans of monster out of it too. 

he better be getting a few cans of monster out of it. or dinner. he'll settle for dinner.

"yeah!" alex says with a smile. "although this was lunch—normally i cook all my meals, unless I've been really busy. then i end up going to taco bell, there's one like, three blocks from my apartment." he says before adjusting his beanie, making sure his hair wasn't sticking out in every direction.

tubbo seems to process this information for a few minutes, seems to focus on what alex has said. it really would have been adorable had alex not been thinking about how much of a dick the kid's father had to have been—did he never make a home-made dinner for his kid? 

( he wasn't thinking about whether or not he had time. after all, he didn't know the kid's dad at all—all he knew was he was rich, probably could leave the building at any time with that kind of money—

and who wouldn't want to stay home all day and watch over this little guy? )

"you're just like my _old_ babysitter!" tubbo admits, grinning from ear to ear. "he made really good food _too_ , but he was like, really old, older then dad and—well, he had blond hair, and had a few kid's too, but this was before we had that _one_ female babysitter and now she's gone and—." the kid begins to spew out, and alex just stares slowly nodding.

not understanding a single fucking thing.

"so.. you _currently_ don't have a babysitter?" alex asks, and then he says something really stupid. it's not his fault, he just—well, he doesn't think. all the obvious moment's in this conversation should have told him exactly what he needed to know about tubbo's father's relationship status but—

but maybe he is _stupid_ , because as soon as tubbo shakes his head no to the babysitter question, he watches as the kid stuffs the rest of the churro chip in his mouth before grabbing another one.

and it reminds him of his mom.

"why didn't you just stay home with your mom?" he knows the moment he's said it, he's fucked up— _except_ tubbo doesn't cry, doesn't give him a weird look. not because he's asked the question, at least.

he does give alex a weird look, taking a bite of his new found churro chip.

"mr. quackity.." and he feels like he's about to hear it—the kid is gonna snap, the dad's gonna walk in, he's gonna have a hit-men on his ass for like, three hundred dollars _because really that's all he's worth and_ —".. what's.. _what's_ a mom, again?" 

alex's mouth drops open, stays dropped open for too long apparently because tubbo grabs another churro chip, dipping it in honey before setting the narrow side into alex's mouth.

he quickly eats the chip, trying not to laugh at what tubbo had just done because holy shit the kid doesn't even know what a mom is. 

"like," he says, swallowing the mouthful of churro chip and honey before grabbing his water bottle, taking a sip. " _like_ , a woman who hangs around you often, and cooks dinner and—uh, she seems really loving and stuff?" he finishes the moment he swallows the water.

tubbo thinks on it again, looking toward's his fingers as if he's trying to calculate all the female's he knows that could possibly be his mom.

"well i have my _aunt_ puffy who's really nice and—." tubbo begins and alex quickly cuts him off, because if he's dying he's not dying from convincing the kid his aunt is also his mom—embarrasment clearly showing in his cheeks, he speaks over tubbo.

he laughs first, nervously. " _no no no_ —tubbo, that's your aunt." he says clarifying. "but uh, it's okay not to have a mom— _i mean_ , i didn't really have a father figure growing up, and i turned out alright." he adds.

"but—but i _want_ one!" the kid says, and the voice saying it isn't demanding or powerful, just.. just sad. 

the kid stays there in silence for a moment, so alex sits there in silence too before tubbo finally shifts on the couch. there's a small smile pressed against his lips as he glances up towards alex. 

" _you're_ really nice—and _you_ make food, and i think _you'd_ be a great mom—you can be my mom, _right_?" tubbo says, and holy shit he's going to die, _he's going to—_

alex nervously smiles. because tubbo is literally missing the whole point of having a mother—she's gotta be female, right? now, it's not like you couldn't have two mother's, or two dad's, or—or something like that, but he didn't think it'd lead down this rabbit hole.

( alex doesn't know what to say. he freezes. genuinely freezes. he's never had a question like that thrown at him before. he's not here for more than twelve hours, and after that he doesn't really plan on coming back.

the kid won't see him again—the kid will get hurt because of him, and that's something alex really _doesn't_ want to happen. but if the kid has a tantrum and decides to hide that's an even more dangerous position—

he's just a pawn on the board, currently backed up to the end of his court and he can't make a good move. )

"sure." alex says, shaking his head with a chuckle. "but—but that doesn't mean I'm your _actual_ mom, okay?" he says, clarifying the situation—and tubbo seems to ignore the last part, because he's suddenly got his arms wrapped around alex.

he's suddenly pulled into a hug.

alex pauses before hugging back, gently patting the top of tubbo's head with a deep sigh. 

after the hug tubbo had convinced him that they needed to draw bees. it didn't take much convincing on alex's side, though, considering tubbo was definitely pulling on his heart strings. there was no way he'd walk out of here with any dignity left.

mostly because he let tubbo draw on his face with black and yello sharpie, drawing small little bees going up his forehead. he had his beanie pulled off, slightly long hair falling into his eyes as the kid stood in front of the couch, working away.

the bees slowly went down to his cheeks, too, on both sides of his face—and before he knew it tubbo was giving him black and yellow _freckles_. 

the bees didn't stop there—tubbo had him pull off his track suit jacket, revealing the white tank top underneath. he basically grinned at the amount of room he now had for more bees. 

bees that definitely wouldn't wash off any time soon, alex figured. he couldn't help but smile though, the kid's smile was definitely contagious—and after getting two whole arm sleeves of bees and having the black and yellow markers run out, tubbo leaned up against him. 

and fell asleep. 

he didn't have much choice but to throw his track jacket over tubbo like a blanket—and inevitably, he fell asleep too.

* * *

when schlatt opens the door to his office, he can't see tubbo. now, this would have been perfectly fine if he seen karl—the new employee he had just thrown his kid at. 

he was going to _apologize_ , maybe give the poor guy a raise—it was their busiest season after all, the guy just definitely missed out on a day of work knowing tubbo—even if it was only a little after lunch. 

but he seen neither of them, and that's what made schlatt panic.

a soft mumbled _fuck_ rang out from his lips as he looked around—and if it hadn't been for his messy coffee table, he wouldn't have glanced toward's the couch.

( it was covered in.. well, he didn't know what was in the clear lunch container, but he could see _honey—there_ was a water bottle too, a stack of paper with a rushed drawing of three bees.

which, why the fuck did one bee have a beanie on it? with the word's _'my mom'_ above it? schlatt didn't really understand, but there was a bee beside the mother bee that looked kind of like him.

if he was black and yellow with a giant fucking stinger, that is. )

when he looked towards the couch, tubbo was curled up on the chest of.. who the _fuck_ was that? 

his skin was definitely darker than schlatt's—but then again, schlatt looks like he hasn't seen the sun in ages. 

( mostly because he _hasn't—not_ like he can do anything about it now, he's sure there's gonna be snow on the ground within the next few days. )

black messy hair, long enough to drape down past his nose—a peaceful look pressed on his face, and fuck—this fucking guy was covered in bees.

bee _drawings_. tubbo was definitely the culprit of that.

he found himself staring, cigar still in hand—he quickly rushed himself to the nearest ashtray, the one by his desk before putting it out. 

it was... definitely a sight to see. normally he would have started shouting, would have started yelling at the _stranger—because_ that's what he is, a _stranger._

but tubbo was fucking _smiling_ in his sleep, and the guy had his arms protectively wrapped around his little guy making sure not to drop him off of the couch. 

is it bad that he hasn't seen tubbo _smile_ around his babysitter's before? 

( he always has a neutral expression, or ends up frowning—he doesn't like when his dad leaves him, and schlatt figures a babysitter is just the clearest fucking sign that he needs to go away for awhile. ) 

the room smells of cinnamon and honey, the guy has a fucking baby face—can't be drinking age yet, schlatt would fucking laugh if so. but he's definitely not all that young, either—he's got a bit of scruff on him, as if he forgot to shave this morning.

or didn't have time to.

and his ring tone is almost _priceless,_ because it goes off just as schlatt sits down.

_hold up i'm beamIN_ ' 

he's never seen someone wake up quicker. 

making sure tubbo wasn't woken up he quickly grabs his phone, swiping at something before holding it up to his ear. 

" _chinga tu madre_." he whispers, and schlatt's pretty fucking sure that's spanish—not that he fully knows what it means. he stays silent, watching from the corner of his eye as he glances toward's the damage done on his desk.

luckily it doesn't seem like tubbo drew on it again.

"it means f-u-c-k off, tubs is _sleeping_ and if you wake him up—." the poor guy still sounds half asleep as he speaks, and if schlatt looks close enough he's pretty sure his eyes are _actually_ fucking closed, too. 

he can't help but hold in a laugh at the fact he spells out the word fuck instead of just saying it. 

_"...what?"_ he suddenly says, suddenly opening his eyes and glancing around before—

" _karli'llcallyoubacklaterokaybye_ ," he says, quickly hanging up. he's made eye contact with the guy, and schlatt can't help but chuckle, standing up before walking toward's him.

"jesus fuck, did karl pay for a babysitter or _somethin'?"_ schlatt says, stopping just beside the coffee table. 

the guy seems pretty fucking uncomfortable, glancing towards him—almost taking him in before taking a deep breath.

"i could have been swearing in front of tubbo all along?" he asks before _snorting,_ shaking his head ever so slightly. he sets his phone down on the couch, his other hand still wrapped around tubbo—who's now clinging to his arm, the smile still pressed against his face.

he grabs a.. _toque?_ a _beanie?_ before placing it on his head, messing up his hair. "uh, _not really—."_ he says, shrugging ever so slightly as he awkwardly sits up. 

"I'm a friend of karl and sapnap, they kind of _panicked_ and—." he begins to say before nervously scratching the back of his head.

he smiles, awkwardly smiles, and for some reason schlatt feels himself starting to panic—he doesn't even know what he's panicking over.

( he blames it on being happy—over the _deal,_ over his _meeting—doesn't_ think anything else could be the cause of it. )

"hm," and the stranger instantly glances towards tubbo. he open's his eyes, glancing up with a smile before reaching his arms out to be picked up—not by him, by the stranger.

( tubbo doesn't even _look_ at him. )

who quickly does so, chuckling ever so slightly. "good morning tubbo—your _dad's_ here now." he says, and tubbo look's towards him before grinning—

only to _frown._

( schlatt can't say it doesn't hurt, it fucking _hurts_ badly—he almost get's jealous before he seemingly understands why.

tubbo _likes_ the stranger as a babysitter, and that's the first time that's ever _happened._ )

"but.." tubbo says, glancing towards the stranger. _"quackity—."_

and it's instantly a name schlatt won't forget. he's already got an idea in mind, and he's stubborn—

he _always_ gets what he wants, after all.

quackity looks confused, tilts his head to the side ever so slightly. "what's wrong, tubbo?" schlatt's nearly _melting—rarely_ does he get to see tubbo interact with anyone but ranboo and puffy, and it's almost like tubbo has decided that quackity was apart of his family.

and this quackity guy is handling his son so well—he's _patient,_ even right now. normally babysitter's get angry, or they just end up being average. 

philza was probably the best babysitter tubbo ever had—but tubbo didn't _like_ him unless tommy was around.

"but... but if you go I won't get _anymore_ churro chips _and—."_ tubbo begins to say, and schlatt watches as quackity chuckles, giving tubbo soft hug before nodding toward's the container on the table. 

"you can keep the rest, and I'll send karl with a package every now and then if you want me to—." he offers, and schlatt suddenly feels the need to butt in.

"actually, that _won't_ be necessary." schlatt says, and quackity glances up toward's him—there's something in his eyes that schlatt can't pin point, but almost instantly he glances down towards tubbo, the glimpse of something gone and replaced with a smile.

"tubbo dear, me and your dad are gonna go outside and have a quick chat, okay?" he says, and tubbo nods, quickly sliding off of quackity with a smile. almost instantly quackity stands, heading out the door—

schlatt follows, _far_ too interested in what's about to happen.

quackity's just outside his office door, leaning against the wall when schlatt walks through—he closes the door behind schlatt, the smile on his lips quickly slipping away.

"uh, _tubbo's_ dad—." he begins, and schlatt snorts.

"he hasn't told you my name?" schlatt asks, and the sight that unfolds in front of him is _beautiful._

quackity's cheeks turn _pink,_ embarrasment flooding over his face—he seems to glance into his eyes before looking down toward's both of their shoes. 

"i never _asked—."_ quackity basically squeaks out before clearing his throat, glancing back up toward's schlatt before standing up straight, his side no longer pressed against the wall.

schlatt's initial thought is _holy shit he's short._

he almost thinks tubbo would just reach quackity's collarbone— _he's that short._

"listen, that's— _that's_ not why we're here right now, stop distracting me." he quickly says, raising his hands—he speaks with his hands, waving them around as he speaks.

_"tubbo's_ dad, I'm sending karl with snacks, and you don't get a say in it. okay? _okay."_ quackity says, and schlatt can't help but grin.

that wasn't what he meant when he said it—but it's pretty _fucking_ adorable for this guy to think he can order him around. it's cute, in a _stupid_ kinda of way.

but he's honestly _amused_ —lucky little quackity hasn't pissed him off. 

( _yet._ )

"schlatt, my name is _schlatt."_ he says, and somehow quackity doesn't falter—his face _doesn't_ scrunch up in horror, he _doesn't_ look any different.

( schlatt's _impressed._ either he's fucking clueless and hasn't read the huge sign outside that says schlatt inc. or he's just that confident, either way, he's the perfect role model for tubbo—

the perfect _babysitter_ for tubbo. )

_"cool,_ my name is alex." he says, shrugging slightly. "alex _quackity,_ nice to meet you, now, are you gonna take the treats karl brings for tubbo, or not?" 

"nah, don't think i will." schlatt says, and alex suddenly looks _pissed_ before schlatt raises his hands up ever so slightly, as if he were in front of a cop. "relax, _quackity,_ you can give them to tubbo yourself." 

that's when alex's face suddenly drops into confusion, when he suddenly takes a step forward staring schlatt down—or, well, staring up toward's schlatt.

god, what a fucking _shortie_ —schlatt could definitely use him as an arm rest.

_"what?"_ he asks, and suddenly his voice is a lot less defensive—it's curious, and it seems like alex wears everything on his sleeve. schlatt just watches as emotions come and go on his face before responding.

"I'm hiring you as tubbo's babysitter. you officially start tomorrow, _but_ you'll be paid for today, too." schlatt says, and karl is definitely getting a _raise—sapnap,_ too, considering his name was mentioned as a reason to why alex was here.

"me _perdonas_ —?" his voice is small as he speaks what schlatt assumes is his native tongue, taking a quick step back as he looks schlatt up and down again.

_cute_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> quackity doesn't seem like he's freaking out, but trust me chapter 4 quackity is freaking the FUCK out
> 
> also i'm not a native spanish speaker but I'm /also/ not using google translate, but if you ARE a native spanish speaker and have any suggestions please do tell me


End file.
